THE FULFILLMENT
The chorus were tunefully lifting up their voices in their initial
number, their watchful eyes on Professor Harmon's baton, when the
belated Princess hurried to her position in the wings. Laurie Armitage
had returned to the stage and was instituting a wild search for
Constance. Failing to find her upstairs, he had hastened below, and was
rushing desperately up and down the corridors, peering into the open
doorways of the deserted dressing rooms. Only one door was closed.
Behind it a black-haired girl awaited a call to fame. He called
Constance by name, again and again, then, receiving no answer, he dashed
up the stairs, encountering the object of his search at the very height
of his alarm. Marjorie Dean stood on guard beside her. She advanced
toward the excited composer, saying briefly, "Let her alone, Laurie.
She's awfully nervous and upset. She has just had a dreadful fright.
I'll tell you about it later."
Constance cast a reassuring glance at Laurie. She had heard Marjorie's
protecting words. "I'm all right now," she nodded. "I won't fail you."
The dulcet notes of her opening song, "I'm tired of being a Princess,"
brought immeasurable relief to Lawrence and Marjorie, as they stood in
the wings, their anxious gaze fixed upon Constance. In one of the
dressing rooms below, the silver strains came faintly to the ears of
Mignon La Salle. During her interval of waiting she had been softly
humming that very song, confident of the summons she believed she would
receive. She had no doubt that her cowardly plan had worked only too
well. Knowing Constance Stevens' deep affection for her tiny foster
brother, she could readily see a vision of the terrified girl rushing
out into the night in search of him, her duty to the operetta completely
forgotten. As the sound of that hated voice reached her, she sprang to
the door of her dressing room and half opening it, halted to listen. A
wave of black rage swept over her. Forgetting her recent change of
costume, she took the stairs, two at a time, and ran squarely against
Lawrence Armitage and Marjorie Dean.
Marjorie could not resist a low laugh of contemptuous scorn as she
viewed the stormy-eyed girl whose unscrupulous plan had failed. The
contempt in her pretty face deepened as her quick eyes took in the
details of Mignon's costume. The French girl's indiscreet haste to make
ready had convicted her. Marjorie had already learned from Mary all that
had occurred. It needed this one proof to complete the evidence.
Lawrence Armitage was regarding Mignon with perplexed brow. "That is not
the costume you wore last night, Miss La Salle," he said with cold
abruptness. Scrutinizing her closely, amazement began to dawn on his
clear-cut features. "When did you----"
With a low cry of mingled humiliation and fury, Mignon turned and ran
down the stairs, her slender body trembling with the anger of a defeat
born of the failure of her plan and her own betraying haste. Gaining the
shelter of her dressing room, she gave herself up to a paroxysm of rage
that ended in a burst of hysterical sobs.
The end of the first act brought a troop of hurrying, laughing girls
downstairs. Instead of the alert, self-possessed Mignon who had swept
proudly into the dressing room that night, those who shared the room
with her found a convulsive weeper lying face downward on the floor.
"What's the matter?" was the concerted cry.
A good-natured senior took Mignon gently by the shoulders. "Get up,
Mignon," she commanded. "If you don't stop crying, you won't be able to
go on when your cue comes, let alone trying to sing." Mignon's first
entrance took place in the second act and occurred directly after the
rise of the curtain.
The French girl half raised herself at this reminder, then sank back to
her original position with a fresh burst of racking sobs. Finding her
good-natured ministrations ineffectual, the senior left Mignon to
herself and began to change methodically to her peasant costume of the
second act, the scene of which was laid in a village and in front of the
cottage where she supposedly dwelt.
"Ten minutes," called the warning tones of the freshman who was serving
as call boy. Still Mignon refused to heed the admonitions of her
companions.
"Better call Laurie Armitage," suggested one girl. "She can't possibly
go on. Harriet Delaney will have to take her place. Mignon isn't even
dressed for her part. Where do you suppose----" The senior did not
finish her sentence. Something in the familiar details of the gown
Mignon wore aroused an unpleasant suspicion in her active brain. A
swift-footed messenger had already sped away to find the young composer,
who, with the departure of Ronald Atwell had taken the arduous duties of
stage manager upon his capable shoulders.
When the information of Mignon's collapse reached him, he made no move
to go to her. Instead, he beckoned to Harriet Delaney, who had just come
upstairs, and whispered a few words to her which caused her colorful
face to pale, then turn pinker than usual.
"But I haven't a suitable costume," several girls heard her protest.
"Go on as you are. Your costume is suitable," reassured Laurie.
But down in the dressing room Mignon had struggled to her feet. The
knowledge that her unfairness was to cost her her own part in the
operetta aroused her to action. In feverish haste she began to tear off
the gown she wore.
"Second act," rang out through the corridor. With a low wail of genuine
grief, Mignon dropped into a chair. She heard Harriet Delaney begin her
first song. Unable to bear the chagrin that was hers, she sprang up.
Readjusting the gown she had partly thrown off, she seized her cloak and
wrapped it about her. Then she fled up the stairway, and into the calm,
starlit night to where her runabout awaited her, the victim of her own
wrong-doing.
* * * * *
It was a happy trio of girls that, shortly before midnight, climbed into
the Deans' automobile, in which Mr. and Mrs. Dean sat patiently awaiting
their exit from the stage door. Lawrence Armitage's operetta had been an
artistic as well as a financial success. It had been a "Standing Room
Only" audience, and the proceeds were to be given to the Sanford
Hospital for Children. Laurie had decreed this as a quiet memento to
Constance's devotion to little Charlie during his days of infirmity. The
audience had not been chary of their applause. The principals had
received numerous curtain calls, Constance had received an enthusiastic
ovation, and many beautiful floral tokens from her admiring friends.
Laurie had been assailed with cries of "Composer! Speech! Speech!" and
had been obliged to respond. Even the chorus came in for its share of
approbation, and to her intense amazement Marjorie Dean received two
immense bouquets of roses, a fitting tribute to her fresh, young beauty.
One of them bore Hal Macy's card, the other she afterward learned was
the joint contribution of a number of her school friends.
Only one person left the theatre that night who did not share in the
enthusiasm of the Sanford folks over the creditable work of their town
boys and girls. Mignon La Salle's father had, for once, put business
aside and come out to hear his daughter sing. Why she had not appeared
on the stage, he could not guess. His first thought was that she had
told him an untruth, but the printed programme carried her name as a
principal. He arrived home to be greeted with the servant's assertions
that Miss La Salle was ill and had retired. Going to her room to inquire
into the nature of her sudden illness, he was refused admittance, and
shrewdly deciding that his daughter had been worsted in a schoolgirl's
dispute in which she appeared always to be engaged, he left her to
herself. It was not until long afterward, when came the inevitable day
of reckoning, which was to make Mignon over, that he learned the true
story of that particular night.
It had been arranged beforehand that Constance was to spend the night
with Marjorie. Shortly after Charlie had been comfortably established in
Constance's dressing room, Uncle John Roland had appeared at the stage
door of the theatre, his placid face filled with genuine alarm. He had
been left in charge of Charlie, and the child had eluded his somewhat
lax guardianship and run away. Finding the little violin missing, he
guessed that the boy had made his usual attempt to find the theatre, and
the old man had hastened directly there. Charlie was sent home with him,
despite his wailing plea to remain, thus leaving Constance free to carry
out her original plan.
The Deans exchanged significant smiles at sight of Marjorie, Mary and
Constance approaching the automobile, three abreast, arms firmly linked.
"Attention!" called Mr. Dean. "Salute your officers!" Two hands went up
in instant obedience of the order. Constance hesitated, then followed
suit.
"I see my regiment has increased," remarked Mr. Dean, as he sprang out
to assist the three into the car.
"Yes, Connie has joined the company," rejoiced Marjorie. "I am answering
for her. She needs military discipline."
"Three soldiers are ever so much more interesting than two," put in Mary
shyly. Her earnest eyes sought the face of her Captain, as though to ask
mute pardon for her errors. Mrs. Dean's affectionate smile carried with
it the absolution Mary craved, and Mr. Dean's firm clasp of her hand,
as he helped her into the car, was equally reassuring.
Mrs. Dean had ordered a light repast especially on account of Constance
and Marjorie. She had not counted on Mary, but she was a most welcome
addition. Their faithful maid, Delia, had insisted on staying up to make
cocoa and serve the supper party.
"Captain," begged Marjorie, as the three girls appeared in her room,
after going upstairs, "please let us stay up as late as we wish
to-night? We simply must talk things out. To-morrow is Saturday, you
know."
"For once I will withdraw all objections. You may stay up as late as you
please." The three girls kissed her in turn. Mary was last. Mrs. Dean
drew her close and kissed her twice. "Have you won the fight,
Lieutenant?" she whispered.
Mary simply nodded, her blue eyes misty. She could not trust herself to
speak. "To-morrow--I'll--tell you," she faltered, then hurried to
overtake Constance and Marjorie, who were half-way upstairs.
The "talk" lasted until two o'clock that morning. It was interspersed
with laughter, fond embracing and a few tears. When it ended, Marjorie's
dream of friendship had come true.
Mary had more to say than the others. She confessed to writing the
letter of warning that had so mystified the basket-ball team.
"I knew you wrote it," Marjorie said quietly. "I found it out by
comparing the paper it was written on with a letter I had received from
you. I was so glad. I knew you couldn't be like Mignon, even if you were
her friend."
"I was never her friend, nor she mine," asserted Mary with a positive
shake of her head. "I was jealous of Constance and was glad to find
someone besides myself who didn't like her. I never knew the true story
of the pin until Jerry----" She paused, coloring deeply.
"So Jerry told you. That is just like her. She is the kindest-hearted
girl in the world. Next to you two, I like her best of all my
schoolmates." Marjorie's affectionate tones bespoke her deep regard for
the stout girl whose matter-of-fact ways and funny sayings were a
perpetual joy.
"If only I had listened to you and Connie in the first place." Mary
sighed. "I've spoiled my sophomore year and tried hard enough to spoil
yours. And there's so little of it left! I won't have time to show you
how sorry I am and how much I care."
"We will begin now and make the most of what is left of it," proposed
Marjorie gently. Then she added, "Jerry didn't know all that happened
last year. I would like to tell you about it."
"Please do," urged Mary humbly.
Marjorie told the story of her first year in Sanford, frequently turning
to Constance for confirmation. When she had finished Mary was silent.
She had no words with which to express her utter contrition.
"Now you know our sad history," smiled Marjorie, with a kindly attempt
at lightening the burden of self-reproach Mary bore.
"But neither of you has told _me_ how Mary happened to find Charlie
to-night," reminded Constance. "I am anxious to know. This is the first
time he ever ran so far away."
"Oh, no, you forget the night he went to Mignon's----" Mary broke off
shortly, red with embarrassment. She had not intended to speak of this.
Constance's positive assertion had caught her off her guard.
"Went to Mignon's?" was the questioning chorus of her two listeners.
Mary was obliged to enlighten them. "I wondered if he ever told you,
Connie. He promised he wouldn't," she ended.
"And he never told, the little rascal," was Constance's quick reply. "No
one except the maid knew it, and you may be sure she never said a word."
"It was that night I came to my senses." Mary smiled a trifle wistfully.
"I saw myself as others saw me. You thought I was grieving over Mignon,
Marjorie. But I wasn't. It was my own shortcomings that bothered me. Now
I must tell you about to-night, and then you will know everything about
me."
Constance received the account of Mignon's attempt to supplant her in
the operetta with no trace of resentment. "I ought to be angry with her,
but I can't. She has suffered more to-night than I would have if her
plan had succeeded. Poor Mignon, I wonder if she will ever wake up?"
"That's hard to say. At any rate, she did some good, even if she didn't
intend to," reminded Marjorie. "I'm going to try to keep my junior year
in high school free of snarls. There is no use in mourning for the past.
Let us set our faces to the future and be glad that we three are done
with misunderstandings. Marjorie Dean, High School Junior, is going to
be a better soldier than Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore has ever
been."
Both Constance Stevens and Mary Raymond smiled at this earnest resolve.
In their hearts they felt that Marjorie Dean need make no vows. She
stood already on the heights of loyalty and truth, steadfast and
unassailable.
How fully Marjorie Dean carried out her resolve and what happened to her
as a junior in Sanford High School will be told in "Marjorie Dean, High
School Junior," a story which every friend of this delightful girl will
surely welcome.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
Alternative spelling and variations in hyphenated words
have been retained as in the original publication.
The following changes have been made:
who were maknig _changed to_
who were making
Do you miss anyone? _changed to_
"Do you miss anyone?
racuous voice _changed to_
raucous voice
atuomobile, and when _changed to_
automobile, and when
asperin tablets _changed to_
aspirin tablets
strange predeliction _changed to_
strange predilection
sinmply because she _changed to_
simply because she
atlhough the latter _changed to_
although the latter
stayled her, and _changed to_
styled her, and
continual penace for _changed to_
continual penance for
the previous Christmas eve _changed to_
the previous Christmas Eve
please don't be disapponted _changed to_
please don't be disappointed
Who says I'm not a poet _changed to_
"Who says I'm not a poet
That let's me out _changed to_
That lets me out
was alloted the part _changed to_
was allotted the part
red with embarassment _changed to_
red with embarrassment
soldier than Marjorie, Dean _changed to_
soldier than Marjorie Dean